“It’s okay,” Lydia whispered, letting her cry it out and hoping that, once the sobs subsided, she’d finally explain what the hell was happening.
When Yona stood upright, her cheeks were red and streaked with tears, her eyes puffy. “You don’t know, Lydia, you just—”
“Then tell me.”
“Not here. C’mon.”
Lydia got into her Mercedes and followed Yona’s Chevy Malibu to a bar a mile away.
Once they were seated in a corner table, tequilas in front of them, Yona finally spoke.
“I tried to fight back, y’know? Tried to get Ken to—to treat me and Ana the same as he treated Cliff and Phil. He—he kept saying they were tougher competitors, and he needed to see fire in our bellies. Not discipline, not self-improvement, but fucking fire. We tried, we really did, we did everything he said, but it just—it never got any better. And then—and then there was the Christmas party.” Yona lit up a cigarette. “We—we were all drinking. A lot. I—I went to the bathroom, and Ethan…” She took a long drag on the cigarette.
Lydia prompted: “He followed you in?”
She nodded, looking grateful that she didn’t have to actually say those words. “He—he told me that if I knew what was—what was good for me, I would stop giving Ken such a—such a hard time. And then—then he yanked up my skirt, and—”
Again, she broke. Sobs racked her again, and Lydia got up and sat next to her at the table instead of across, wrapping her arms around her mentor. “It’s okay.”
She wiped tears from her cheek with her palm-heel. “No, no, it’s not, it’s not okay, I couldn’t tell anyone what happened, Ethan is Ken’s total right hand, and they worship him! He gets you trophies, he makes you stronger, he’s a winner.”
“If you’re a guy.”
“Yeah.” She dragged on her cigarette, and that seemed to stop the sobs. “That—that wasn’t the—the end of it. After the party, Ken asked me and the other women to—to help clean up. Except he didn’t want help, he wanted us to do it all while the guys stood around and—and drank more. And then Ken—he pulled—he—God, he pulled down his fucking pants! Said if we did a good job, he’d let us blow him.”
“‘Let’ you?” Lydia stood up. “C’mon. We’re going back to that dojo so I can kill him.”
“Lydia—”
“C’mon. I’m a federal agent now, I can kill the cabrón and just make up a reason.”
“Lydia, stop! Sit down, please!”
Reluctantly, Lydia did so, grabbing her tequila and slamming two-thirds of it with one gulp.
“Please don’t do anything crazy. You—you don’t understand the following Ken has.”
Recalling her dive-bombing around the World Wide Web for stuff on the so-called grandmaster, Lydia said, “Yeah, I do. I just don’t give a shit.”
“Well, I have to. Fine, you go beat him up or shoot him or whatever. Then what? Even if you get your military buddies to cover it up, I’m still stuck here. Ethan and the other black belts will come after me.”
“Then fight them.”
“I can’t. Not all of them.”
Lydia stared at the woman who had been the source of her strength for her entire tumultuous adolescence. “Fuck, Yona, you—This can’t be fucking happening! When Mami died and Papi disappeared, you were there. You got me into the dojo, you got me out of trouble, you got me in the damn SEALs! You can’t be broken like this, you just—”
Yona put a hand on Lydia’s and looked into her eyes again. “Just go back to your life, okay?”
“And just leave you behind? Fuck that shit, chica. Kaicho may have been the teacher at the dojo, but you? You were my real sensei. At the very least, I want a piece of those assholes tomorrow night.”
“No, don’t, you’ll only make it worse. Remember what Kaicho always said? Once you get into a fight, you’ve already lost. Well, I tried fighting, and I lost.”
“Bullshit. There’s a way to win. Put his ass away.”
“And how do I do that?”
“How the fuck do you think? Fill out a police report. Then get your boss to go on TV and tell the nation how one of his staffers was molested by two black belts.”
“I—I can’t. They’ll crucify me, tell everyone that I was mad because I didn’t get a black belt and made up the accusation. They’ve done this before, Lydia.”
“So what? If nobody says anything, he’ll keep doing it.”
“He’ll keep doing it anyhow.” Yona looked away. “Just leave it alone, okay?”
“I can’t. Because you didn’t leave me alone when I beat the shit out of José Alvarez. You gave me another chance. Now it’s my turn for you. Tomorrow night, when he’s busy running the fighting class? Go to MPD HQ and fill out a complaint.”
Yona was shaking her head. “I can’t fight him.”
“Alone, no. But you’ve got a congressman for a boss, you’ve got me, and you’ve got the Miami Police Department, if you actually give them something to work with. Maybe it won’t work, but if you don’t make the effort, you won’t get the success.”
For several seconds, Yona just stared at Lydia.
Altogether, there are twenty-seven women in Martinez’s pilot program. The congresswoman is a realist: she knows that between 80 and 90 percent of the people who sign up for the grueling one-and-a-half-year SEAL training wash out. That’s why she’s only angling for a single fire team, which is usually four or five sailors. Eight fire teams in a squad, four squads in a troop, three troops in a team. She thinks this is realistic.
You think it’s nuts, and you don’t think you’ve got a chance.
But you also remember what Kaicho Bill said that first day at the dojo in Marathon: Without the effort, the success will never come.
So you make the effort.
A year and a half later, you’ve passed SQT, along with four others: Helene Lagdamen, Dorian Michaeli, Dayana Copeland, and Luci Ousmanova. The congresswoman has her fire team.
Grandmaster Ken had looked dubiously upon Lydia when she arrived at the dojo and gone straight to the changing room. Upon seeing the symbol of Kaicho Bill’s dojo on her gi, he was even more dismissive. “This is a fight class, not a ballet class like what that old man taught.”
“You know what else he taught? Respect.”
“Respect is earned, little girl.”
“Call me ‘little girl’ again, and I guarantee you won’t earn mine.”
There were an even number of students, so Ken didn’t participate in the fighting, though he did put on protective gear anyhow.
At first, he paired her up with low-level fighters, white belts and lower belts who were new to sparring. They were all long on enthusiasm and short on technique, and Lydia worked with them, encouraged them to throw combinations and keep their hands up.
By the halfway point, one of the purple belts was limping and needed to stop fighting. At that point, Master Ken started joining the fights.
She overheard several people talking about what a strong, smart fighter this Lydia woman was.
So finally, Ken teamed her with Ethan.
“Your turn to go the fuck down, cunt.”
Lydia somehow managed not to laugh in his face.
She spent most of three minutes of fighting on the defensive. Ethan was fast and strong, but had no discipline, and telegraphed every move. Lydia saw every long punch, every awkwardly set-up kick, and every unimaginative combination coming a mile off.
Ethan grew more and more frustrated, because his techniques got sloppier. He also tried shin kicks and knee kicks and groin kicks, as well as punches to her head.
Nothing landed.
Ten seconds before the buzzer would signal the end of the round, Lydia finally went on the offensive.
Two seconds before the buzzer went off, Ethan was on the floor clutching his belly and trying very hard to breathe.
Ken went to check Ethan out, but after a quick glance, he bore down on Lydia. “Lucky shot.”
“He w
as lucky he didn’t try to duck. I was going for his solar plexus, and if he ducked, my kick would’ve cracked a rib.”
Snorting derisively, Ken said, “You’re fighting me next.”
Lydia just smiled.
Ken was a much better fighter than Ethan. His punches were shorter and sharper, his kicks faster, his combinations more imaginative. Lydia struggled to keep pace, popping a few jabs and moving around quickly.
Then she went on the offensive.
First was the right hook punch toward his head, which he easily blocked, then she followed with a left uppercut to his solar plexus and a joint kick to his right shin.
Grandmaster Ken fell to the floor, sweat pouring from his face, teeth gritted in an obvious attempt to not scream in pain.
“She cheated!”
“How’d she do that?”
“That wasn’t a fair fight, she must’ve done something.”
“Stupid twat!”
Lydia turned to the men gathering around Ken with concern and said, “That’s Chief Petty Officer Twat to you. It’s the rank the navy gave me when I joined the SEALs.”
“Fuck you, bitch, you ain’t no SEAL.”
Several of the fighters then started to move toward her.
She caught her breath, trying very hard to psych herself up. The fight with Ken was brutal, and even though these guys individually were no match for her, if they all ganged up on her, particularly as tired as she was …
But then the door to the dojo opened and six police officers walked in.
“Everybody hold still, don’t move!” one shouted, holding up a piece of paper. “I’ve got a warrant for the arrest of Kenneth Coffey and Ethan Shaw.”
When you pass SQT, there are four congratulatory emails waiting for you. One is from your former bunkmate, Taylor Benson, who washed out of SEAL training. One is from Kaicho Bill. One is from the congresswoman.
But the one that matters is the one from Yona. It just reads, I always knew you could do it, chica.
Yona came into the Schooner Wharf, where Lydia was waiting with a tequila and a strawberry margarita. To Lydia’s relief, Yona did not reek of cigarette smoke, though she did light up when she sat at the bar.
“How you doing, chica?” Lydia asked.
“I had to change my cell number and get a new email address because of all the death threats. I can’t even look at the Internet right now. Congressman Nieto has hired security for me.”
“I saw his press conference.” Lydia smiled. “Told you that would work.”
“It’s a nightmare. It’s a fucking nightmare.” She licked the salt and then gulped down a quarter of her margarita. “But I feel better than I’ve felt since Kaicho died. It’s gonna suck, but it sucked before and nothing was getting done. Now, at least, people know just what kind of man Ken is. And maybe more women will come forward.”
“I hope so.” Lydia sipped her tequila. “I gotta get back to D.C. I got a call from my boss this afternoon, and they’re sending a private jet to come get me at the airport.”
“Fancy.” Yona dragged on her cigarette, then put it out unfinished. “Thank you, Lydia.”
“Just doing the same thing some fucking crazy lady did for me once upon a time.”
“Watch your language, chica.”
“Don’t call me chica, bitch.” She raised a glass. “To Kaicho.”
“Osu.”
They clinked their glasses and drank.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keith R. A. DeCandido is a second-degree black belt in karate (he both teaches and trains) and has spent an inordinate amount of time in Key West, so this story comes from the heart. Other tales of his taking place in the Keys include “We Seceded Where Others Failed” in Altered States of the Union, the Mack Bolan, Executioner novel Deep Recon, “Raymond’s Room” in Doctor Who: Missing Pieces, and a series of stories featuring Cassie Zukav, weirdness magnet, in the anthologies Apocalypse 13, Bad-Ass Faeries: It’s Elemental, A Baker’s Dozen of Magic, Out of Tune, Tales from the House Band, vols. 1 and 2, and TV Gods: Summer Programming, the online zines Buzzy Mag and Story of the Month Club, and the collections Ragnarok and Roll: Tales of Cassie Zukav, Weirdness Magnet and Without a License: The Fantastic Worlds of Keith R. A. DeCandido. Other recent work includes the Marvel Tales of Asgard trilogy, featuring Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three; Stargate SG-1: Kali’s Wrath; Heroes Reborn: Save the Cheerleader, Destroy the World; A Furnace Sealed; Mermaid Precinct; three novellas in his Super City Cops series; and stories in Aliens: Bug Hunt, Baker Street Irregulars, Limbus Inc. Book III, Nights of the Living Dead, V-Wars: Night Terrors, The X-Files: Trust No One, and others. Find out less at his cheerfully retro website, www.DeCandido.net.
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EDITORS’ NOTE: This story is a crossover between the Joe Ledger series and James R. Tuck’s Deacon Chalk: Occult Bounty Hunter series. In the Deacon Chalk series the titular character, Deacon Chalk, hunts monsters of all sorts in the South with the help of his adopted family, a crew of misfits, and monsters themselves.
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WHITE FLAME ON A SUNDAY
A JOE LEDGER AND DEACON CHALK YARN BY JAMES R. TUCK
Yeah, I know Joe Ledger.
Intense motherfucker he is, and if I’m saying that you know it’s the gospel truth.
Let me reel that in a bit, I don’t know Joe Ledger. We aren’t going out and doing bourbon shots to celebrate special occasions or taking long walks on the beach, but we worked together once and he more than had my back. In my line of work, that’s fucking gold.
What happened?
Pull up a chair, pour a drink, and I’ll tell it.
It all started in a shitty abandoned warehouse on the Southside of town outside the airport. Atlanta’s a lovely city, my hometown and all, but down by the airport it goes to hell. Local politics here have left us with miles and miles of lost real estate. Empty warehouses, abandoned mills, houses falling in on themselves. We ain’t Detroit, or even Memphis, but we have our bad side of town, as most cities do.
I’d picked up a tip that the White Flame had been active in Atlanta and they were targeting a shady deal happening on the Southside.
And when an ancient Sumerian blood cult that just won’t die sets up in my town you best believe I’m looking into it. The White Flame are like rats, they multiply faster than you can kill them. They’ve been around for thousands of years doing evil shit. I don’t know a lot about them. That’s not my gig, I have people for that. They deal in dark magick and human sacrifice, and that’s all I need to know to put a foot up the ass of whatever plans they have.
I followed that tip to a shithole place that used to make paint and now just stood on a kudzu-covered lot. Kudzu really will eat abandoned buildings. Kids here learn if you find a huge section of the shit, be careful because there’s something rotting underneath. Go climbing in it and you wind up falling forty feet into a dilapidated building you couldn’t even see.
So there I was, crouched in the dark behind some big mixing vat in the corner of the warehouse. It smelled like old latex and made my eyes burn, but I had a good view of the meet so I wasn’t moving.
No, I am not telling you how I know what old latex smells like.
The middle of the warehouse opened to an old loading dock, a big open space in front of what once was a rolling steel door. The door had fallen, or been torn down, and hung on to one side of the steel frame like a rusted curtain. Two pickup trucks had been pulled inside, real redneck-mobiles, jacked tires, rebel-flag bumper stickers, the whole nine yards. Four shitkickers stood by them. Two of the fellas were big hunks of meat, heads gleaming in the late afternoon sun that streamed in the open bay doors. Beefy arms full of jailhouse ink hung out of their T-shirts. Red suspenders and white laces in their boots put them as white pride assholes and not ashamed of it. I hate skinheads.
Nazi fucktards.
The other two with them were older, could have been their dads, maybe uncles. Both of them wore BDUs and had full heads of h
air. The one on the left’s shirt had letters big enough for me to read from my vantage point.
It said WHITE MAKES RIGHT.
Goddamn idiots.
Across from them stood everything they hated.
Big Jolly and his crew.
A real piece of work, Big Jolly, selling some shit he had no business selling to some dumbasses who had no business buying it. Big Jolly wasn’t jolly at all, he was a ruthless bastard with a real cruel streak, but he came by the “Big” part of his name honestly. Big Jolly was a hefty sonuvabitch. Pushing 450 pounds at well under six feet, he was nearly as wide as he was tall. Lumber as a verb, not a noun. His suit lay over him like a tarp on a pile of garbage, tucking into folds and creases his mass made against itself. His crew was international and interracial. Three hard cases from three different continents probably here on exile for crimes against humanity.
Everybody packed heat.
The rednecks had a pair of pump shotguns and three handguns amongst them. Big Jolly’s crew were strapped, the Jamaican, in particular, holding a Mini-14 capable of slinging lead across the whole place if cut loose.
I was also strapped, you know I’m always strapped, but all their guns made me wish I’d put on the ballistic vest Tiff kept trying to get me to wear. But it was too hot to wear in the Georgia humidity, and most of the things I go against don’t use bullets.
It was a weird thought, even for a moment, considering the possibility of dying without wanting to and going on to be with my family. It made my stomach turn sour, so I pushed it aside.
I’m good at that. Been doing it for years.
But if I caught a bullet from one of these yahoos, Tiff would be pissed.
Back to work.
I couldn’t hear what was being said, I was too far for that, but I could see one of the older rednecks gesture and Big Jolly lift up the backpack he held.
It was a plain, dark gray backpack, like millions of people use every day. No markings on it, nothing to make it stand out. Generic. Damn near invisible if left in a busy area.
The best thing that could possibly be in that pack was drugs.